dead of night under an empty moon a piercing noise is grating nerves raw and stealing the breath of my lungs blood-curdling, abrasive, grinding through my teeth dragging nails through my flesh tearing rifts into a nervous mind gasping, the cold biting burning weary eyes the sound halts, and I inhale.
Each person is but a grain of sand resting beside the sea. This thought sets the tone for Jill Eisnaugle’s latest poetry collection, Beside Still Waters.
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